


in dreams

by Huzuzu470



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Canon - Manga, F/F, Manga Spoilers, Past Lives, Previous Eren/Historia, Sexual Content, punk!Ymir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23917972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huzuzu470/pseuds/Huzuzu470
Summary: Where to, where to begin?I live alone, I live a lonely life without you“um,” she says, “have we met?”ymir’s throat bobs slightly as she swallows. “yeah. we’ve met. sorry i took so long.”
Relationships: Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss/Ymir
Comments: 12
Kudos: 62





	in dreams

she can’t remember when she started having the nightmares.

it must have started when she was around four or five, maybe earlier. barely old enough to remember much before. not nightly, not quite, but when they come, they come strong. her mother had told her there was no reason to be afraid when she was younger, something about monsters not being real, and her solution had been a night light plugged into her wall. it hadn’t helped, and her mom, tired, stressed, working full time, gave in to letting her sleep in the same bed. it'd fade out, she supposed.

but it doesn't. on the contrary, they become more vivid, more violent, more real when christina can piece together bigger scenes. even in her later teens, whispers of the past trickle their way into her ears, hammering at her skull. distant memories of war and death and rotting flesh. a name that wasn’t christina. she gets a therapist for it.

there had been a girl.

she knows she’s important. sometimes other people creep their way into her dreams, people she knew before. her third grade english teacher, her middle school principal. two of the kids she had grown up with -- ben and james. sometimes she called her friends by the wrong names. no one ever really thought much of it, besides her.

but the girl -- the girl with the stoney face and the freckles and the long, crooked fingers like twigs. she comes back almost every night.

her therapist asks if she had imaginary friends as a child. no, obviously not, she tells him. the clouds outside his office window are puffy, the sun occasionally disappearing behind them. do people actually have imaginary friends? she asks. she’d always thought that was a movie trope.

he makes a note in his files, ignoring the question.

a week later her mother gets an email about social anxiety, and maybe some mild form of ptsd, though he doesn’t know what from. what kind of 17 year olds even get ptsd? she hears her mother mutter under her breath. at the bottom there’s a phone number, if they ever they want to reach out to a psychiatrist. her mother thanks him in a response, and says they’ll look into it maybe, but they don’t. not really.

eventually when the dreams get to be too vivid, too frequent to handle, she gets a prescription for halcion pills. when they come, the people mush together, like a painter smearing his brush across a wet canvas, the screams muffled past comprehension. 

it’s enough to get by, for now, and the faces fall back into her subconscious.

* * *

on her 21st birthday, they go to a bar to celebrate; just a few friends out. one of her friends smokes outside with her. it’s fucking cold, for spring.

“you want anything, chrissie?” he asks, and she shakes her head. they're alone on the sidewalk, minus a few other smokers from the bar, and he shrugs, putting an arm around her. she giggles into his bomber coat. there’s excitement in the air, her heart fluttering in her chest, the pulse of the music from inside drumming faintly in her ears. the lamp overhead catches them in an orangey off-colour glow.

he’s definitely not bad looking, she thinks. a car whooshes by. 

they’re also both pretty drunk.

“actually, can you order me another rum and coke? i’ll be back in soon. i just want a minute to chill before i get back to the party.” another drag on her cigarette, and the tip flares red in the light. the bouncer glances at them, stoic.

“sure,” he says, and smiles, leaning down next to her ear. “i’ll be waiting for you,” he whispers. a playful nip lands on the skin of her neck. she giggles again, and he slips back through the door.

so now, she’s alone for just a moment. the clear march air is crisp on her lips, tobacco filling her lungs as she breathes in. it’s not a bad night, so far. she’s definitely had worse. but something in her stomach just won't _\-- settle_ right. 

someone's watching her. she can feel the eyes on her.

 _relax,_ she thinks. no one cares. no one ever cares. she always gets paranoid like this when she drinks, and that's why she always comes with friends. in fact, she should probably go back, back inside where it's warmer and there's people -- it's better. she'll be safer, inside, she thinks, snuffing the cigarette under her heel.

it's understandable that she jumps clear out of her skin when a voice comes from over her shoulder. “you really shouldn’t smoke that shit, too, you know.”

it takes a moment to fully register what it's saying, neck snapping to face the direction the noise came from. there’s someone new standing a few feet out of the halo cast under the streetlamp, and she has to squint to make out their features. maybe, she considers, maybe she’s more than pretty drunk. 

“and here i was having given up,” the silhouette says, “until now at least. you know?” they look vaguely female, hips jutting slightly under their clothing.

she shakes her head. she knows rationally that she should be a little afraid, that that’s a _weird_ fucking sentence to lead with. but, well, the voice doesn’t _sound_ deranged, at least, and oddly, all rationality aside, -- again, maybe it’s the alcohol in her system -- she isn’t.

a slow blink, and the sound of traffic in the background. the stoplight at the corner flickers to green. 

“um,” she says, “have we met?”

they step forward, and it’s the same girl from her dreams four years ago. the same narrowed eyes, the scowl, the brown hair that falls in wisps around her eyes, a hoodie over her head. when she reaches up to pull back the hood, they’re her lanky hands, her pointed jaw.

ymir’s throat bobs slightly as she swallows.

“yeah. we’ve met. sorry i took so long.”

* * *

they’ve left the bar about ten minutes ago; she tells her friends she’s tired and her mother wants her home. it’s not entirely a lie, it is 2am. they’re waiting for the subway, the screen saying it’ll be there in three minutes.

“do you get them too?” she asks. ymir nods.

“on the bad nights. not all the time.” she shrugs. “i remembered most of it without the dreams. training together. fighting together. my parents thought i was crazy, before i wised up enough to stop telling them about it. i was pretty sure i was crazy too, until tonight." she taps the toe of her shoe awkwardly against the tiled floor, uncertain what to say.

"you know levi’s my little brother now? he’s fourteen. nasty little menace, too.” she laughs, and historia watches as she swallows again. 

there’s a tense moment, the only noise the snoring of a homeless man on the other side of the station. krista balls her hands into fists in her pockets.

“you’re a fucking asshole.”

the words are out of krista’s mouth before she can stop them. or, well, historia’s -- christina’s -- frankly she doesn’t actually know her name right now, and she’s too angry to think about it too hard. something had clicked together in the last half an hour, and huge swathes of her life made sense, and _this_ \-- really this was the shittiest way it could have come back to her. couldn't she have run into eren first?

ymir looks down. “yeah, i am.”

another second falls between them, and then;

“why does no one else remember?”

“can’t say.” ymir snorts. “probably something to do with shifting. or the whole royal blood bullshit. come to think of it, you probably did became a shifter in the end, right?”

“i don’t remember.”

another moment of silence. the alcohol in her is making her brain fuzzy, distorted and static. it occurs to her briefly that if it’s past 2am, the last bus for her house has already left, which had been exactly why she’d had a backup plan to stay with a friend. 

“fuck,” she mutters, digging her phone out of her pocket. ymir turns.

“what’s up?”

historia groans. “i need to call an uber. i just remembered my last bus is already gone.”

ymir shrugs back. there’s a distant rattling echo of the train headed towards them. “stay at my place. I have a couch.”

“no fucking way,” she snaps. “you’re telling me you expect, -- after _god_ knows how many years later, -- that after you disappear like that and just leave me, that finding me outside a bar _centuries_ later, makes up for all that? you think i’ll just roll over and act like i can trust you again?” 

the words are harsher than they’d sounded in her head, but she doesn’t stop them from pouring out of her mouth anyway. she wants some kind of… apology, at least. she isn’t sure. 

the subway cars whoosh past them, wind stirring her hair. the doors flip open, and ymir steps on without so much as a glance backwards.

“where were you for half a century?” she demands. ymir flinches.

“i’m here now.” 

the words are hollow-sounding in the empty station.

ymir turns back to look at her, hand outstretched, and her facade has broken, slightly, her eyes pained. “you’re drunk. i know you can’t forgive me right away, but i want you to be safe tonight.”

there’s a fraction of a second where historia hesitates, phone in hand, and, just as abruptly, with the warning chime of the subway, shoves it back into her pocket and steps in behind ymir, the doors flitting closed again behind her. the car is empty besides them, which is all the better when she throws ymir against the wall, grips her by the collar of her sweater, and kisses her, teeth clacking against each other. 

her hair knots and tangles between historia’s fingers. “holy fuck,” ymir slurs, words muffled against her skin.

and then she’s tugging at her waist, pulling historia closer and gripping at her back, the train rails rattling underneath them as it pulls out of the station.

* * *

ymir’s heel catches on the corner of the doorframe of her apartment as they crash through, a mess of wandering hands and tongues and hormones, dragging historia after her and slamming the door with a decisive crash, neighbours be damned. she locks it with a clunk behind them, struggling to catch her breath. 

“this way,” she says, stumbling to the bedroom, leading historia backwards by the sleeve, past the living room and the kitchenette, the bathroom off to the side. half the room is taken up by her bed, a creaky twin mattress that’s probably older than her, and they fall onto it, knees buckling against the footboard, historia resting on top of ymir’s hips, heart thundering in her ears. 

they kiss again, more frantic than on the metro, ymir leaning on her elbow to prop herself up, shrugging off the sweater as she does. a hand is pressed against her lower back, cold against her skin, and historia wonders how many times she would have gotten this if ymir hadn’t left.

there’s a strained pause as ymir freezes up under her, and then, to her own surprise blurts, “i don’t want to fuck you right now.”

the words catch historia off guard, her breath catching. a displeased grumble forms in the back of her throat. clearly, they’ve startled ymir as well, her eyes comically wide. her face is silver-blue in the moonlight coming in from the glass sliding balcony doors.

“i -- what?” historia asks, cocking her head to the side, and ymir flushes purple in the dim light.

“don’t get me wrong,” she says, “i mean i _want_ to -- i just… you’re super drunk. i can’t right now.”

“fucking, hell --” historia grumbles, and leans down, pressing her into the mattress again. “i know my own limits, just _shut up_ and stop being such a white knight,” she orders, popping a button open at the top of ymir’s shirt. a hand goes up to catch hers, warily, and ymir eyes her.

“are you sure?”

historia swats it away, defensive and annoyed. “trust. me.” the words are confident. she’s had drunk sex before, why was ymir so fucking _cautious_ out of nowhere like this? she shoves a hand into the front of ymir’s jeans, feeling her way around roughly.

ymir’s fingers slink up, hesitant, peeling historia’s shirt away from her skin, sliding it over her head. hot breath in her mouth, on her skin, kissing her neck, her collarbone -- 

her hands are resting over historia’s chest. “should i?”

“whatever,” she says back. ymir seems to take this as a yes, snapping the back of her bra open and sliding it off her shoulders, throwing it to the side. a gust of air hits her chest, lungs expanding, and ymir tugs at her waistline.

“fuck off,” historia orders, batting her hands away. ymir quirks an eyebrow in surprise. 

“what? am i not allowed to touch you back?”

historia doesn’t answer, sliding down on the bed, her hands fumbling at the button of ymir’s jeans, not even bothering to finish undoing her shirt.

“hey,” ymir whines, stilling her hands. her voice is pitchy and annoying. “slow down. you’re _super_ fucking drunk, you dumbass.”

she scowls back, reaches back at the buttons of ymir’s shirt, undoes all the buttons painfully slow.

“happy?” historia asks, throwing the fabric open. "are you undressed enough for me to move on yet?" she notices numbly that the bra ymir is wearing is plain black, flat and practical. she doesn’t wait for a response before lifting ymir’s hips up to yank her jeans downwards, a sigh whooshing out of ymir as she does, keening slightly at the touch. historia smiles at it, runs her tongue along the crease between ymir’s hip and leg to kiss her way down, a low growl on her lips, before biting, _hard_ , into the meat of her thigh --

“fucking _christ_ , historia!” ymir shouts, throwing her off. she kicks away from under her, scooting backwards on the bed “what the _fuck?_ are you fucking ok?”

“yeah,” she says, dully. “just get back here --”

ymir frowns. “you just _bit_ into my leg like it was a fucking chicken finger.”

“i’m _fine_ , just --”

“dude, cut it out,” ymir orders, and she shoves her away. “what’s your problem? are you ok?” 

“what the fuck’s _your_ problem?” historia spits back. she clenches her teeth, angry. “are you trying to piss me off?”

“hey, cut that -- _out --!_ ”

“then just fuckin let me eat you out and we’ll figure the rest out later,” she huffs. she makes another grab, but ymir pulls her pants back up roughly. historia freezes in place, and they sit an awkward distance apart until ymir reaches over to put a hand on historia’s leg. 

“i’m serious. you can talk to me,” ymir murmurs, and her eyes soften for a long moment. the hum of electricity in the walls is the only noise, the room painfully silent, and she adds, far too belatedly, “you know, i really prefer when you’re ok.”

the pity is enough to set her off. 

“whatever” she spits. she grabs her bra and clips it back on, grabs the shirt and pulls it back over her head, the fabric taught against her skin, storms out of the bedroom and slams the door shut behind her. she can hear ymir scramble up off the bed.

“historia! shit -- look, i just --” ymir swears loudly again, and there’s a thump from the other room as she trips over something, “i can’t right now, you’re fucked up over something and i don’t know what’s wrong.” the door swings back open with a little click, and historia is putting her shoes back on. she can hear ymir muttering under her breath, "i _know_ you well enough to know when you're fucked up."

“you know,” she says, bitterly, “i could have gone home with tomas instead. the guy i was with at the bar? you know -- _before_ you creeped up on me. compared to this, i’d have had a _great --_ ” she huffs, pulling the backs of her shoes up, “ -- _time._ ”

“hey that’s not fucking fair --” ymir snaps, but she doesn’t get the chance to finish her sentence. historia's hand is already reaching for the doorknob. “where’re you gonna go?”

“home!” she spits, and ymir steps in front of her, pushing her back.

“you’re _drunk._ how do you plan on getting there?”

“and you’re an ass,” she retaliates. “i spent _years_ wondering what happened to you. i spent my fucking _whole life_ thinking i’d never get to see you again.”

“historia,” ymir begs, her voice soft and pleading, “please just sit down.”

historia grabs the hems of her shirt, still open, her stomach off-white in the dark, and shoves her against the door, a snarl in her throat, smashing their mouths together. her lips are already swollen. she hardly notices when they split under ymir’s teeth.

“historia! --” she pants, her eyebrows furrowing together angrily. she shoves historia away. “-- that is _not_ fucking attractive!” 

they struggle against each other, but it’s only when ymir grabs at her arms that historia punches her in the gut, the air forced out of her in a little _oomph_ that might be the most satisfying noise she’s heard all night. 

a car goes by outside. the night is humming with energy outside, early-season bugs buzzing against the screens of the houses and apartments all around them. some of their tiny bodies catch in the mesh, wings ripping against the metal wires. ymir freezes on the spot, and her arms wrap around historia in what she slowly realizes is supposed to be a hug, but feels more like a cage.

“i’m sorry.”

the words are abrupt and unexpected and there’s pricks at her eyes -- _fuck_

“i shoudn’t have left you behind. i’m sorry. but you can’t -- _drown_ whatever you’re feeling now, and trying to sleep with me now isn’t going to help the you that existed back then,” she says softly. there’s a dull moment of realization that she’s crying, and ymir is wiping the tears from her face with the corner of her right hand.”we have a second chance now. don’t you want to use it?”

“ _fuck_ you.” there's a hiccup between the words.

ymir laughs hollowly. "later, maybe." she reaches a hand up to try and stroke her hair, but historia shoves her off completely, leaving them facing each other, the blatant weirdness of it all only amplifying the longer the silence goes on. she wishes the stupid shag carpet would just swallow her whole.

ymir reaches behind her neck instead, nervously, and offers, “do you want some food or something? i’ve got some, like, weird stir-fry leftovers. i just -- want you to be ok.”

historia shakes her head, kneading her hands into the hem of her shirt as she does. she’s looking down to avoid meeting ymir’s gaze.

“look,” she says, “then i’ll make you some tea or something, ok? just -- here,” she says, patting the couch. “give me a few minutes, and i’ll get you some blankets too. is that all okay? but please stay here tonight.”

there’s a pale stain on the floor in the living room. historia stares at it blankly, wondering what had happened to stain it, then nods her head, trying to hide her face, even though there’s no way ymir doesn’t realize she’s still crying and just -- _fuck_. fear wells up in her stomach at the thought that her voice might crack again, so she nods.

“okay,” ymir says. “just wait. it'll be ok.”

her footsteps disappear into the kitchen, and historia slumps onto the couch.

* * *

_she’s in a field of flowers, watching the clouds drift by. her head rests in her sister’s lap, as she reads a story to her, stroking her hair gently. the sun reaches its way down through the upper canopies of the trees around them, and historia asks, “how do we know humanity is gone beyond the walls?”_

_frieda freezes, her soft gaze falling on historia’s face. there's no anger in it, no resentment, but something about it feels -- sad, somehow._

_“the titans couldn’t have eaten everyone,” historia says, and frieda looms larger and larger above her, features all distorting and warping and melting together, steam rising from the marks under her eyes --_

_historia falls back, scuttles away from the titan on all fours as it grows larger still, scleras darkening to black as she stares, eclipsing the sky. the calm morphs into panic, bubbling in her gut, eyes dating frantically around, flowers bending under her feet as she tries to run._

_it's no use. the ground swallows her feet, sinking to the knee. the titan reaches, slowly, blood dribbling down its chin._

_“humanity isn’t gone at all." its voice is unexpected and low, rumbling. her shins are wet, human entrails seeping up through the ground. the stench of bodies all around them makes her stomach roil, from the smell of fetid, rotting flesh, yellow dress bleeding cardinal red where it soaks in their remains._

_her whole body is shaking. “why are we still trapped here?” she asks._

_the titan blinks._

_"don't you already know?" it asks back. its back is crooked, teeth sharp, with a beaked nose and an ugly, twisted face --_

_the hand comes down on top of her._

* * *

her eyes fly open, body shaking in the early morning light. ymir is petting her back. she wonders if she was thrashing in her sleep.

“how long was i..?”

“you were out three hours or so,” ymir replies, calmly. “i could hear you writhing from the other room. it's the dreams, right?” she’s changed into a t-shirt, and her eyes are sunken, sleep deprived. historia fell asleep in her jeans, and she briefly wonders if ymir has been there all night. the couch fits awkwardly into the corner of the tiny apartment, diagonal against the wall, barely enough space for both of them on it. “do you want some food?”

“yeah, i guess,” she says, sitting up. her head is pounding, the last of the rum still swirling around her brain. ymir stands up to get her some, and historia shoves her back down just as fast, grumbling. “i can get it myself.”

ymir laughs. “at least you’re straight to the point this time around.”

she rolls her eyes and shoots back a glare so withering that even ymir flinches, disappearing into the kitchenette, rummages through a few of the drawers, and eventually finds the cutlery. 

“there’s some cereal and bowls in the second cabinet,” ymir shouts from the couch, an awkward distance away. historia can hear the old tv buzz as it flips on in the other room, sizzling like a glass of pepsi as it does. it must have been ancient, from the look of it, something from the early 2000s at best. it doesn’t take her long to find the cereal, (fruit loops? seriously? whatever.) pouring two bowls and shoving a spoon into each one. the milk in the fridge is almost expired.

“thanks,” ymir says, taking it from her gently. historia plops back next to her on the couch, the morning news drawling in the background as she takes a bite. 

“what’s that look for?” ymir asks, her eyebrows meshing.

“i didn’t peg you for the children’s cereal type,” she says back, mouth full.

ymir shrugs. “i’m not gonna deny myself shit out of social obligations after what we went through before this,” she says dully. “besides, it tastes good.”

she’s got a point, historia thinks. they both had a rough enough run the last time around to afford some weird comforts now. 

“what was your dream about?” ymir asks, eyes on the tv.

“my sister,” she replies. “something about the coordinate, the founding, that stuff.”

“ah,” ymir grunts. the weatherman says something about a percent chance of showers. historia has always found it funny that the weather channel refers to it as “showers” rather than rain. she’s pretty sure she can’t remember a single time anyone in real life has called it that. “you have a sister?”

historia freezes, remembering ymir had left before a lot of things had had the chance to happen. “oh. uh, yeah.” 

they sit in semi-complacent silence together. she finishes her cereal and stands, rinsing out the bowl in the sink while historia watches her. “that’s cool, i guess.”

ymir is basically like she remembers her being. gaunt, expressionless face, aloof attitude, her shoulders squared as she stood in the tiny kitchen, hands hovering over the sink. the annoyed way she crosses her arms and squints at the tv around the corner, leaning on the counter as she lets the water run. historia watches her drop the spoon into the sink too, metal on metal clanking, flip off the tap, and walk back, sitting cross-legged on the end of the sofa.

“why were you at that bar last night?” she says, trying to change the subject, tapping the spoon against her empty bowl. ymir sighs.

“i wanted to get drunk.”

“oh.”

“oh what?”

a pause as historia looks out the window, putting her bowl down on the table. it’s thin, and runs along the very top of the wall, yet there’s still a balcony outside her bedroom, so that half of ymir’s apartment hovers a few feet above ground level, the building seemingly built on a slant. from what she can see, the sky outside is pinkish, sun peeking over the horizon and ebbing its way across the clouds in wisps of coral. 

she’s trying to find the right words to explain how frustrated and angry and sad and happy she is that they’d run into each other. probably the right word would have just been stopping at _frustrated_ , come to think of it, and she doesn’t know how to tell ymir she wishes she could go back to thinking it was all fake, yet how much she’d _missed_ her, how long the second part of her life had seemed after the cadets, after the padding out at night to meet her in a storage shed, soft moonlight falling like a sheet over them, and now that she’s _thinking_ about it again --

without bothering to find the answer, she rolls over on the couch and presses her lips against ymir’s. there’s a moment where she feels ymir tense up under her, legs flat against the couch, clock ticking in the background. her lower lip is still throbbing down the line where it was split the night before.

“...what?”

“nothing,” historia says. her hands knead softly into the old t-shirt, pulling ymir up against her hips and rocking into them slightly --

“ _historia --_ you are _still_ not sober.”

“sober enough to know i want to do this,” she drawls, voice syrupy, tangling her fingers into the elastic waistband of ymir’s checkered pyjama bottoms. ymir’s head rolls back and she shudders against her palms. “look,” she says, “i want to fuck you. you want to fuck me. so are we gonna?”

“i mean -- sure? but --”

“okay, then,” she says. she knows she’s cutting her off, some unspoken protest dying on her lips as she does. ymir falls against the couch, her spine arching as historia drags her fingers across her stomach, hands dipping back into her pants and slowly wiggling the waistband over ymir’s hips.

“historia,” ymir moans, and it’s breathy, just a bit desperate. the words catch ever so slightly between her teeth, legs spread as historia settles between them and presses a wet, open kiss to her clit through the fabric of her underwear, watching her chest rise suddenly with a sharp inhale.

“someone’s eager,” historia breathes, her chin resting on the mattress.

“shut up,” ymir mutters.

she presses the flat of her tongue up against ymir, pulling at the material of her boxers until ymir lifts her hips, and they slide smoothly down her thighs, her legs laid bare against the sofa, pants and underwear hanging on by one ankle.

“-- why do you even want this so bad?” 

the words are muffled through the cushions. historia has to stop and think about it for a second. she realizes she doesn’t actually know.

“gonna eat you out,” she hums instead, face flush to the soft crease between ymir’s thigh and vulva, wispy hair scraping her chin, the low thrum of the vibrations in her throat making ymir wiggle her hips instinctively. her eyes are scrunched closed when historia glances up through her eyelashes.

there’s no real thought behind it as she slides her tongue over her clit and sucks on it, more muscle-memory than coherent intentions, ymir’s thighs squeezing ever so slightly around her head. she gasps and writhes under historia, as if she doesn’t know what to do with the sensation, her lips open into this perfect little moan. historia presses her tongue inside her, and feels her hips kick up, eager and keening against her mouth, eases a finger up into ymir, curling it, muscle clenching tight around her. she’s numbly aware she’s grinding her own hips down into the couch cushions. 

“want another?” historia asks. she pulls back out and runs her hand on her stomach, breath hitching at the sight. ymir seems to coil under the touch.

“yes, please,” she breathes. she shifts her weight, hands twisted into the cushions.

without hesitating, historia hooks a second digit inside her, slides her nose once against the inside of ymir’s thigh. “you can pull my hair if you want,” she offers. ymir doesn’t hesitate, right hand sliding down to knot her hair, tugging lightly at the strands, eyes fluttering closed again as historia’s mouth moves back in place.

it’s not accurate to say she thinks of herself as a dominant personality, but the way ymir lies completely loose, thighs spread open for her, clit throbbing against the air as she spreads her lips, lights something electric and agitated in historia’s stomach. she braces an arm over her, forcing her thighs onto her shoulders and she growls low in her throat, feels ymir’s fingers digging into the back of her skull like she’s trying to pull her closer, wet and warm and shaking against her mouth. 

she takes a breath and runs little circles around her clit with her tongue, sucking harder and pulling it between her lips, massaging the little ridged spot inside her. an almost animalistic snarl comes from ymir in response, rocking herself deeper onto her fingers, legs trembling.

the words are faint and breathy, on the brink of a whisper. “-- _fuck_ me.”

“good girl,” she coos, pausing to run her other hand over the small of ymir’s back, gazing up through the locks of her pubic hair. “come on my fingers. i want you to come apart on my hands for me, ymir.”

historia licks back over her and spreads her fingers apart. she feels the burning sensation deep in her gut almost purr as ymir’s whole body heaves upwards in response, her moans muffled into the crease of the couch, clenching on historia’s fingers as she does. there’s a breath as her back arches, riding out the orgasm, hips sliding down to the knuckles of historia’s hand as she finishes, and she finally collapses onto the couch. 

they lie still for a moment after, ymir panting quietly, staring at the ceiling, historia’s fingers running lazy circles over her skin. she’s still crouched between her legs when ymir rolls over, groaning. 

“i’m a terrible person.”

“only sometimes.” historia wipes off the bottom half of her face, and she feels it twitch upwards into a smile. “seems like even now, i still have you wrapped around my finger.”

“shut up.”

“what? i’ll make you come again, if you want.” the offer slips out of her mouth before she can stop it, all kinds of cocky woven in its undertones.

ymir sits up, eyes still hazy in her afterglow, and sighs. “i think i gotta go to work soon, actually,” she mumbles, glancing at her watch. “have the morning shift.” 

“mm.” the noise is soft against historia’s lips. they’re salty when she licks at them.

“want me to do you, first?” she’s still naked from the waist down as she asks, pants dangling around her foot, halfway on the floor.

historia shakes her head. her nose crinkles a little. “not really.”

ymir shrugs and yanks her underwear back on, pulling it back up to her thighs, sitting up on her knees. “you want anything else to eat before i go?”

historia stares back out the window. “might have a banana or something.”

“sure,” she says. “i’ll get it for you. you can sleep here for a little bit longer.”

she rolls her eyes again. there’s still a trail of slick down her mouth, and she dries it on her sleeve half-mindedly. “‘kay.”

ymir gets up, kicking her pants off her leg and onto the ground, standing there in her oversized t-shirt and black boxers. when she turns around, her thighs are still red where historia’s shoulders dug into them.

“just wait there a minute,” she instructs, and historia nods. she curls her feet back on the couch, the distant murmuring of the early-morning news in the background, leans back her head, and stares at the ceiling blankly.

* * *

when she wakes up, it’s after noon. ymir had left a note on the coffee table before she’d gone to work that just said not to worry about locking the door. there’s a phone number scrawled in messy ink, and a little _text me when you get the chance_ underneath that. _stay as long as you like in the meanwhile_. 

but for the whole train ride home, her stomach twists into uncomfortable little knots each time she types out a message on her phone to reply, finger hovering over _send_ before backspacing the whole thing and starting again. she ends up jamming her earbuds into her phone in and hitting shuffle, burying it in her pocket so as not to think about it anymore.

she’ll text her tomorrow, when things feel less awkward.

* * *

they’re watching kids tv a few days later, her brain wandering aimlessly, when her mom walks in and picks her socks off the couch, armin’s bright blue eyes fixed on the screen, chubby baby hand stuffed into his mouth. he bounces up and down on her stomach as she scrolls down facebook on her phone, tiny sausage fingers grasping at the air.

“christina!” her voice is high and scolding. it occurs to historia how drastically different their relationship is from the first time. “what’s this? c’mon!” 

“sorry, i was gonna do laundry,” she mumbles. 

her mom looks condescendingly downwards at her, draped over the couch, feet up on the cushions. “if you’re going to leave garbage all over the house, i’ll make you start paying rent, or at least charge for a cleaning lady fee. you can afford to be a little neater, as long as you’re living here, especially with a baby sibling.”

“sure,” she says, thoughts melding back together into a smear. nevermind the fact that her mom felt the need to get pregnant when historia was already 18. she sighs. 

there’s a shout from down the hall, the sound of feet hitting the linoleum floors as her mother putters around the dining room. “and make sure your little brother doesn’t get himself into trouble! he could fall on the floor, perched like that.” 

historia sighs again, hesitating for a moment, and then pulls up ymir’s number from her contacts list. her eyes rest on the empty text box.

_we have a second chance now. don’t you want to use it?_

maybe she’d had a point.

* * *

spring trails into summer, gradually, leaves on the trees unfurling and stretching their tiny green faces against the june sun. on long, indulgent sunday mornings, when finals are done and neither of them has work, historia sits in her bed, and watches ymir smoke on the balcony. 

they haven’t had sex again -- not that they really did the first time.

from the bed, past the balcony and out across the street, you can see a little park. sometimes she sees kids playing baseball in the middle of it. historia doesn’t remember ever playing, but somehow she knows she has, from the way she recognizes the dull _thwip_ noise of the ball landing in their gloves before she even sees them. 

there’s a flag hanging over the headboard, the words _no future_ spraypainted in black on it. ymir talks about clubs and pits and shows her a knife collection she keeps in her closet, but historia never really questions it. some nights, she disappears downtown for a few hours, comes home sweaty and tired and sometimes even bloody, reeking of beer, and they’ll make out like horny teenagers for a bit. it never goes further than that. 

she doesn’t really know why they haven’t yet again either. maybe, she thinks, she’s just _stopped_ being attracted to ymir like that. maybe ymir’s not into her like that anymore. it’s unclear.

but ymir’s busy, a _lot_ , when she isn’t partying with her other friends. she sure as hell works more than she did in the cadets. and, historia, -- _krista,_ that is, -- had practically been attached to her at the hip. whatever work they’d had had always been together.

so maybe she’d never really cared about her, she wonders. maybe it had all been out of desperation for... affection? attention? they’d been starved for both. but now they have their own social circles, and it’s all just... different. sure, proximity has _something_ to do with it all, probably. but it isn’t like they’re not seeing each other, either. ymir’s taken her out on more than a few occasions -- neither of them really ever formally addressed them as dates or not. she’s pretty sure they were, though.

she supposes she’s just waiting for the day they’re both ready to talk about that. sometimes the past still comes up briefly, too.

it’s never a long conversation, usually just filler information on what one of them had missed out on telling the other before. ymir talks about the marley government, sometimes, about what it had been like to be a goddess, to be torn down and stoned and condemned to what was widely believed as a fate worse than death. 

“they weren’t so out of line, for their versions of history.” ymir sees it a little differently than her, but it’s not an argument either. she says that, honestly, a lot of governments probably have taken the marley approach to rewriting the history books in their favour. historia isn’t completely convinced.

there’s a river that runs through the middle of town. it’s clean and gentle enough that they sometimes go sit on the banks on those sunday afternoons, or on one of the few docks that you can find, if you walk along the edges for a bit. their socks balled-up on the old wood, pants rolled up while ymir mumbles something about currents that historia isn’t completely listening to. explaining something about how they travel clockwise in the oceans of the northern hemisphere, and counterclockwise in the south, and why. 

“i fucked eren,” historia says. she’s aware she’s interrupting. “after you were gone.”

ymir’s mouth freezes mid-sentence, before snapping closed. the stream gurgles in the background, cattails rustling. underneath the surface, she can see a crayfish pick its way over the rocks, bubbles drifting around it. 

“oh.”

“yeah.”

a long pause falls between them, and ymir shrugs. “that’s cool, I guess.”

“yeah.” she doesn’t really know whether that meant it was ok, or if she should keep talking, or what, but she does anyways. “we had a kid. i’m not sure, but i think he didn’t really know it was his.”

ymir’s eyebrow turns upwards, and she pulls her feet in from the current, putting her arms around her knees. “i guess that can happen in a society that doesn’t have condoms,” she jokes. 

historia side eyes her, cautiously. “you’re not mad?”

“why would i be?” ymir frowns. “i was dead. not really like i was gonna come rushing back in, with that kind of setback.” she laughs. 

there’s another moment where neither of them speaks, and ymir picks a stick off the bank, swirling it in the water. the crayfish jumps at the disturbance, and shoots away. 

“wasn’t that guy the coordinate, though? how’d you have an oopsie-baby with him?” she scratches her chin with the other hand, dropping one of her knees, foot splashing into the water. “he could just modify the baby out of you, if you’d told him.”

“he didn’t want to. more royal-blooded children that way.”

she’s telling the truth, just not quite all of it.

“was he good in bed at least?” ymir prods, and historia smacks at her arm deftly, laughing.

“shut up,” she smiles. she rolls her hips over far enough to lean over and kiss ymir gently, the scent of her conditioner thick in historia’s nostrils as she inhales. it’s coconut scented, sweet.

“c’mon,” historia says, standing. her feet leave blotchy wet prints on the wood, and she shakes them lightly in a weak attempt to dry them before she has to pull on her socks again. “let’s go home.”

* * *

_there’s a figure on top of the wall in front of her. it’s far away, but if she runs hard enough, she inches closer, bit by bit. it’s frustratingly slow, feet dragging and being sucked into the soil with each step, her lungs aching and begging her to stop, heart thudding against her ribs, aching and screaming for rest --_

_she sees the standard issue jacket, the blue and white emblem on the shoulder, feels the wind in her lungs pick up again as she races forwards, still so far but spurred now by her voice, her eyes, the way her lips felt on historia’s skin._

_the wall crumbles apart, and ymir falls through the cracks as hundreds of thousands of giant, skinless titans march forwards, the ground trembling beneath them, her arms reaching out, trying to catch her, trying to reach her before she falls away again --_

_a face looms up in front of her, huge and terrifying and piercing green eyes peering out between his shoulder length hair, titan-marks almost like tears running down his face, before historia realizes that there are tears trailing down it too._

_“please,” it croaks, and suddenly she’s in eren’s bedroom with him, the sky dark outside as he crumbles into her arms. “i just lost everything, i just -- mikasa. armin.” he shakes his head, trembling, on his knees at her feet._

_“i had to drive them away. i had to. they’ll never forgive me, now.”_

_and she… understands it. sort of. she understands the feeling of having lost what had previously driven you forwards, for reasons that don’t make sense, for reasons that you shouldn’t have had to, for reasons you don’t fully understand when they leave you behind and suddenly_

_his breath is hot in her ears, skin slicked with sweat, both of them naked and gripping at each other and his hands pulling at her hair, pulling her head back and trailing his mouth down her neck while he thrusts into her, his mouth whispering, “good girl, that’s a good girl, my krista.” and the name feels so wrong , especially coming from his mouth, but her body still squeezes around him anyways, welcomes him in, aches for more, and she doesn’t care if he uses the right name as long as he just fucks her._

_her son, -- her husband , -- are probably in another room of the royal palace right now, his soft voice singing to her baby from the side of his crib, but historia doesn’t want to think about that too hard, can’t bear to think about --_

* * *

she wakes up in ymir’s arms, body soaked in sweat. she’s still shaking, and her hands instantly reach to clutch at her t-shirt. the nights are all shorter since the nightmares started getting steadily worse again.

“it’s okay,” ymir says, drowsy. she kisses the top of historia’s head. “i’m here.”

there’s a hard knot in her throat when she tries to swallow. she nods her head, her hands still shaking in the darkness. the aftertaste of eren’s breath is still lingering against her lips, his military-issue soap lingering where his skin had been a few seconds ago --

“i’m sorry,” she stumbles, the word falling out of her mouth instinctively. “i’m so fucking _sorry_ \--”

“it doesn’t matter, it’s ok,” ymir says back. “it’s ok.” she tangles one hand in her hair, and uses the other to pull historia closer to her chest.

and, even though she knows ymir is curious, historia doesn’t know how to talk about the dream, doesn’t know how to properly explain it without stirring up all kinds of shit trying. 

instead, she settles for twining her legs into ymir’s and staring at the popcorn ceiling, her thoughts jumbling together, heart thudding against her ribs as she tries to clear her mind.

* * *

she runs into rod in a corner store. historia didn’t think she’d still jump the way she does when she sees him, but she’s not particularly surprised it happens anyways.

he doesn’t look up from the counter at her, scanning the pack of gummy worms without not _icing. “that’ll be it?”_

_she swallows, and nods. “yeah. debit, please.”_

_rod punches the numbers into the machine and slides it to her, and he finally seems to make eye contact, his face shocked as he does. if she’d blinked, she might have missed before it slid back into bored._

“you want a bag for that?” he asks cautiously. they’re the only two people in the store.

“i --” _she starts, her voice wavering. “no. i know you.”_

there’s a second where he doesn’t say anything at all in response, eyes still guarded and dull, before the facade melts off.

“historia, i --”

“don’t you fucking start on me this time around too,” she snaps, her tone sharp. the words come out of nowhere at all, and flow out of her like a reflex. “i remember it _all_.” 

“fuck,” he groans, his fingers digging into his temples. “i knew you would. i knew from the second i left you and your mother in that fucking hospital.”

historia balks, her scolding freezing mid-sentence, mouth still parted. this -- _was_ technically her father, but that part was new information. “you what?”

“look,” rod sighs. “i -- made a mistak _e. cheated. er, again,” he says, and historia rolls her eyes. “i had an_ other family, and -- i signed off my rights to your mother.”

“glad you made yet another good choice,” she snorts, _tapping the debit card against the machine_. “you’ve improved since the walls.”

“historia, we _all_ make mistakes,” he tries, his voice _shifting uncomfortably higher. “i’m not the_ man from inside the walls h _ere.”_

_she shrugs back at him. “you seem like you are. thanks for the gummy worms,” she says, cold, and makes for the door._

she pauses with her hand over the handle. her _fingers knot over the metal, the bag of worms writhing in her hand._ “why do you think we remember it all?”

her father loo _ks back, and says, “we were the ones who changed it. the royal family, the nine shifters -- none of it would have happened without us. they all remember, too, you know. all the shifters. even him.”_

_she feels eren’s breath, hot and humid on the back of her neck, creeping down her spine before the ground falls away under her feet, muscle squeezing around her as she slides down the titan throat --_

* * *

she sits upright in her bed at home, her breath coming in panicked little gasps.

the dreams are becoming hard to separate from real life. 

* * *

“you know,” she mutters, “you should really try to quit.”

ymir raises an eyebrow. they’re standing on the balcony outside her bedroom, late afternoon swirling around them. somewhere a few blocks away, someone is having a barbecue, the smells wafting through the air. ymir sniffs.

“i mean, yeah. eventually.”

“i’m serious,” historia scolds. “it’s a waste, to burn out your lungs like that.” she pulls out one of the cigarettes from the pack and cracks it in half, and ymir flinches, her brow furrowing as she snatches the rest from her hands. historia flicks the two pieces of the broken cig onto the lawn underneath them.

“i did say ‘eventually,’ you know.”

“i’m worried about you,” she wraps her arms around her waist, muttering into ymir’s shirt. “it’s july, and there’s just like, so much less to stress you into relapsing if you start now. no time like the present, right?” 

ymir grumbles, low and annoyed. she snuffs her cigarette butt under her foot.

“i’ll quit if you tell me what you keep dreaming about,” she says, her voice irritated, but historia knows her well enough to recognize there’s a hidden underlining softness to the statement. she’s not demanding so much as giving her an opening to talk about it.

historia sighs. “you -- i mean, i just --” she inhales, tired, resting her forehead against ymir’s shoulder. she doesn’t want to tell her, she just -- ymir _deserves_ to know the truth, doesn’t she?

“i don’t really know where to start, to be honest.”

ymir doesn’t speak, doesn’t really move. just stands and listens, her gaze solemn over the park. the same kids are playing catch, and historia winces each time the baseball _thuds_ against their gloves.

“you don’t need to tell me, either, you know,” ymir says, reading her voice, the waver in her tone, the slight tremble of historia’s hands. “i don’t want you to tell me because you feel obliged. i just -- don’t want you feeling like you can’t, either. and i’ll quit either way,” she jokes. she pulls another dart from the pack, and lights it. “...eventually.”

“but -- eren --”

“-- is gone. he doesn’t matter. i don’t care, really.” ymir sighs, rubbing her temples. she draws a breath, tip of the cigarette flaring. “i mean, obviously i care if you _want_ to tell me, if it’s something you need to make your peace, but… if it isn’t? it’s not important anymore. you stayed here, even after you remembered him.” she mutters under her breath, a bit later, “i’m not good at this, like, weird emotional stuff.”

her brow furrows together, slightly confused at ymir’s statement. “so what?”

“so,” ymir says, turning to face her, her hands resting over historia’s arms on either of her sides, “you chose to stay with me. and if you choose to leave someday, that’s fine too. but i’m not going to bitch and moan about the past,” she shrugs. “neither of us can change it.”

historia lets out a breath she hadn’t noticed she was holding, air whooshing out of her lungs in relief. “you promise you’ll talk to me if that changes?” the guilt about eren, about their daughter and the life she had had to experience before, about the sheer amount of _baggage_ she was bringing into their relationship now, is still heavy on her chest. historia knows that that kind of history, especially when ymir hadn’t been there to remember it all herself, doesn’t disappear overnight.

but ymir doesn’t seem to mind, her back straight, her arrogant, charming smile still even on her face as she leans over, brushing her bangs away.

“hey,” she says. she kisses her forehead. historia feels the worry ebb away, ever so slightly, under her touch. “you know me. i promise. as long as you’ll still sleep next to me.”

the remorse still sits like a boulder in the pit of her stomach, but for the first time, she starts to feel it fade, just a little.

* * *

the concrete slabs of the apartment step rattle under her feet as she dashes up the stairs, shoving the key in the lock. the brass number, -- four - o - three -- shines in the dim light of the hallway. she moved in last week, just before the start of the new semester.

“home!” she shouts, slamming the door closed behind her, the hinges ratting dangerously. she kicks off her shoes, walking into the living room. “hey, ymir?” she’s a little disappointed at the lack of an immediate response, crashing down onto the couch.

“shut --” ymir calls out of the bedroom. her shoulders poke through the frame, ambling over to historia on the couch, “-- up. we have neighbours, you know.”

“fuck the neighbours,” historia says. she pulls ymir by her collar onto the couch, kissing her, her arms lacing around her waist. there’s a nicotine patch on ymir’s forearm, hidden slightly by her sleeves. yesterday morning, she got ymir to trash the last of her cigarettes, words all grumbled and just a little bit resentful, but it’s something.

she _lives_ with ymir. something about it still feels surreal, in the best way.

her arms pull her down onto the couch next to her, bending like the limb of a tree as she falls. 

_“oi --_ historia!” she laughs. they both laugh. “how was work?”

“good,” she says, mouth wrapping around the word carefully. she doesn’t mention that she’s still tired from waking up in the middle of the night, arms and legs sore with exhaustion. she doesn’t really have to; ymir already knows. but it’s getting better, she thinks. the dreams less frequent, less violent when they come. the guilt in her stomach is a bit lighter. “it was okay.”

ymir smiles at her, and historia hooks her fingers through the loops of her black jeans.

“what’ve you got planned tonight?” historia asks back. “going anywhere?”

“there’s a band i like playing downtown,” ymir mumbles into the couch cushions. “at a bar. they have a pit in the upstairs part.”

“cool,” historia says. “can i come?”

ymir blinks, surprised. “you want to come?”

“i wanna understand why you like it,” she clarifies, smiling. “i haven’t even met most of your friends yet.” it might not be her scene, in fact she’s pretty certain it won’t be, in the end, but it’s worth a shot.

“oh,” ymir swallows. “okay. i’d like that.” she pauses another second, and historia can feel her heart through her chest. “i think i love you.”

“i’m pretty sure i love you too,” she laughs, “so that’s good. wanna fuck later?”

ymir’s jaw flops open. “i -- what?” it’s not exactly a classy response, to be fair, but it’s been months and they still haven’t gotten around to it. and historia -- she actually finds she wants to, deep down. it just sort of slipped out.

not that she regrets it, though. “do you wanna fuck me later?” she hasn’t quite wiped off the guilt of everything else, hasn’t quite been able to make peace with what she can remember, but... she thinks she can manage this. she’d like to manage this.

last month she went back to her psychiatrist, and he gave her a new prescription for a different brand of sleeping drugs, to replace the pills that had stopped working. this month -- this month they probably need to try again, to be honest. but historia knows it has to be getting better, bit by bit. this time around, they can watch crayfish pick over rocks in the stream and eat fruit loops and ymir can afford tacky punk decorations for their bedroom and mumble sleepy thoughts into her ears. 

“okay,” ymir says. “mosh, then sex. great.” she kisses her ear, then pauses, quirks an eyebrow. “have you ever _been_ in a pit before?”

“first time for everything, right?” historia smiles. “i’m a fast learner.”

other than ymir, she doesn’t know what else she could want right now. but the rest can come later. they have plenty of time for the rest to come later.

all she knows for sure is that she’s grateful for second chances.

they’re gonna do it better, this time.

**Author's Note:**

> plzz comment if you find any spelling errors or typos, i was exhausted when i finished editing and im worried i missed some, thank you all  
> \- zu


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